


The Robber Bridegroom

by ianthewaiting



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cannibalism, F/M, Fairy Tale Retellings, M/M, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-10 09:18:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12908934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ianthewaiting/pseuds/ianthewaiting
Summary: From a drabble series, a retelling of the Robber Bridegroom.





	1. Road

**Author's Note:**

> ‘I want to feel you hesitate. I want to feel you pull away. I want to feel you realize that I am not love come to play.’ 'Pure' by Gary Numan
> 
> This set of drabbles is based off of ‘The Robber Bridegroom,’ and the original tale can be read here: http://www.pitt.edu/~dash/grimm040.html

The road was long, and Hermione’s feet ached as her worn out shoes slipped in the muddy tracks of the old lane.  She wanted to stop and rest, but her chaperone would never allow it. 

 

The fact she had to walk to the Manor when it would have been easier to Apparate did not go unnoticed.  She wondered if the Anti-Apparition wards went so far out and around the Manor.  Even if she had a wand, she would not be able to escape.

 

Her chaperone was black clad, faceless under the mask upon its face, signifying he, or she, was part of the Dark Lord’s Guard.  The member of the Guard had said nothing since they arrived by Portkey to a Wiltshire village from London.  However, Hermione knew that if she were to step any further away than three feet, she would be hexed, immobilized, and forcefully taken to her ultimate destination, her new home of sorts.

 

On the country lane, she felt exposed under the grey cloudy sky while the sun began to set in the west.  She was cold, shivering in her thin grey shift, the only clothing she was allowed to have.  Hermione knew she was only just a step up from a house elf in the eyes of those who had captured her, tortured her, and was now placing her in the house of the Dark Lord’s servant. 

 

Hermione slipped in the mud and sloshed through a puddle, splashing brackish water up her shins and to the hem of her shift.  Her chaperone did not seem to notice.  Keeping pace with the black clad figure was difficult, its stride longer than her own.

 

Winds blew over the plains, lifting her shift and aerating her body devoid of any under clothing.  Hermione wondered how much farther she had to walk.

 

When she would reach the Manor, she did not know what to anticipate, could not know.  She was not sure as to what purpose she was being sent to the Manor in the first place.  Either her new master had greatly pleased or displeased the Dark Lord, and Hermione was the reward or punishment.  Either she would be used as a slave, like the rest of the Muggles and Muggle-borns, or she would be used for sport of a sexual nature.  On both accounts, Hermione expected pain.

 

She knew pain very well in the years after Harry Potter failed to destroy the Dark Lord.  While many of her friends had escaped and gone into hiding, Hermione had been captured, and kept in the bowels of the Dark Lord’s Ministry in London.  She had been tortured for information she did not have, starved for her petulance, but never violated as many of the other captured had been.  Sitting in her small cell, thankfully warm, dry, and devoid of pests, she had time to consider her situation.

 

Hermione was being kept for a purpose, and after four years of imprisonment, she was out in the open again, her purpose found.  The Manor rose up on the horizon, surrounded by wispy cypress trees, obviously Charmed to grow as large as they did on the windy plains.  It looked much as she remembered it…

 

Her chaperone grasped her arm, pulling her along faster, and she could barely feel the gloved hand bruising her skin for the cold.  Hermione wondered if she should count her blessings—she was outdoors, in the fresh air, and not in her six by six cell in the dark.  Surely, the Manor would be warm and lit.  Surely, she would be fed and allowed the use of proper facilities.  Surely, she would get a larger cell in the basement.

 

She did not want to get her hopes up too much, of course.  She had learned never to hope much in a world that thought her to be lower than scum.

 

Her shoes slipped on the gravel drive and the eerie sound of peacocks roosting on the cold lawn made her stiffen.  The sound brought back memories of a time when she still had hope.  When she came to stop at the front doors, she felt relieved.  Despite her manic pacing of her cell for four years, she had not walked so much in a long time.

 

A gloved hand jerked on the bell pull and almost immediately the doors opened, blinding Hermione with the light inside.  An elf answered the door, and soft, indistinct words were spoken.  Hermione paid little mind as the chaperone released her arm and a wizened elf dressed in a fancy blue velvet remnant took a hold of her hand.

 

The alee of the foyer warmed Hermione’s skin, and she walked slower as the elf pulled on her hand.  Travertine and dark wood, candles, and the scent of dust made her brain nearly overload.  There was no odour of excrement, blood, sex, and death in this house, and Hermione tried to recall her memories of the last time she was in the house years ago.  No memory came.

 

The elf did not speak to her, but pulled her into what looked like a servant’s corridor and down a stair and into a large kitchen where many other elves were working.  The scent of food made her mouth literally water, but she was led away, further down into the Manor.

 

“You will wash, you will wear what has been laid out, and you will not leave the room until I fetch you.”

 

The elf, unlike the others she had known in her life, had a very smooth and low voice.  It identified itself as Aniel.

 

Hermione was left in a small room, Spartan-esque, with an adjacent water closet.  There were no windows, not decorations, only a narrow bed with a pile of clothing atop, a chair with a new pair of slippers under the cane legs, and a candlestick with a lit candle.  Left alone, behind another locked door, Hermione grinned.  ‘Aniel,’ she remembered was the name of the angel of the West Wind.


	2. Folly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘I want to feel your pink clean skin. I want to feel your purity.’ ‘Pure’ by Gary Numan.

The elf, Aniel, came to her two hours after Hermione had washed and dressed in a plain grey dress.  Hermione still was not given the luxury of under clothes.  However, the material of the dress was finer than her old shift, which had disappeared after she dropped it to the water closet floor.  She felt warmer in the ankle length dress, and was thankful for it.

 

“You know beatings?” the elf asked, perched on the chair across where Hermione sat on the bed.

 

Hermione nodded.

 

“You have been kept in good health?”

 

Hermione hesitated, she wondered what constituted ‘good health.’  The beatings and torture had scarred her body from the soles of her feet to her neck, but never the face.  She had mentally listed what had been done to her.  The skin of her soles had been flayed, her legs and arms broken, her fingers crushed, her ribs cracked, her back flogged, the list went on.  It was only physical pain, she knew, and mentally, she had to endure the sight of many of her friends tortured to death in much more gruesome ways than she.  She had been taught never to speak, never to meet the eyes of those who hurt her, of course that did not mean that she would disobey.  They had not totally broken her; she still had her mind and her imagination. 

 

She finally nodded, her hands folded on her lap, her back straight, her eyes on the bottoms of the elf’s hairy feet.

 

“You are too thin,” the elf announced, and Hermione had half a mind to laugh.

 

Being fed watery gruel and moldy bread for four years did little to keep on healthy weight.

 

“You have been branded?”

 

Hermione’s eyes flickered to the elf’s bulbous blue eyes.  She shook her head, her long waist length hair falling in clean curls about her body.  Of all the washing she had done, she was thankful to be able to clean her hair.

 

“Why?  You may speak.”

 

“I…”

 

Her voice was like the opening of a rusty hinge.  She could not remember the last time she had spoken.  The last few times she had been taken from her cell and beaten, she had not screamed.  The violence of lashes had made her skin a callous.

 

“I do not know.”

 

The elf regarded her coolly, its eyes moving from her slippered feet to her face.

 

Hermione knew what ‘branding’ meant.  It was just how cattle breeders would brand cattle either as property or in grading.  Those people who were kept aside for other purposes than information were often branded, usually on their chests or the backs of their necks, signifying their intended purpose.  Some Muggle-borns were kept as breeders, or as slaves.  Others were marked as labourers of different degrees, but Hermione was never branded.

 

“Do you know why you have been sent here?”

 

Hermione had theories, all unpleasant.  She shook her head again, letting her eyes fall to the floor.

 

“You will learn soon enough, it is not Aniel’s place to tell you.”

 

Hermione clasped her hands in her lap, and kept her face passive.

 

“So you know.  It would be folly to try to escape.  It would be folly to disobey the Master, or any of your betters.  As it is, Aniel is your better in this house until the Master sees fit to raise your status.

 

You will be fed a proper meal, and given proper clothes.  Master dislikes untidiness that includes you.

 

You will never look Master in the eye, you will always keep yourself lower than Master, you will always do as Master wishes, and you will not speak until spoken to.  Understand?”

 

Hermione nodded.

 

“It would be folly to use magic here.  Aniel would know, and Aniel will be displeased.”

 

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek.  In her cell, she had been warded from using any type of wandless magic, and she was not sure if she could still tap into her innate ability.

 

“You may speak, witch, questions?”

 

Hermione blinked.  “Will he take me?”

 

The elf blinked in return.  “The Mistress is dead, the young Master is away.  The Master has had many young witches, all unsuitable.  If the Master tries for you, it would be folly to resist.”

 

Folly.  Aniel used the word often, but Hermione knew the implications.  The Master, Hermione knew, was not forgiving.  Even in the cells, she heard the whispers.

 

“You will keep yourself presentable.  You will keep to the sub-levels and the ground floor.  You are allowed to move in these places as you please, but you are not to touch anything that is the Master’s.  You will keep yourself hidden, and you will return to this room before midnight.  Understand?”

 

Hermione nodded again.  She had a new freedom, but it was still a cage.  What was worse, she supposed, was not knowing why she had been given to the Master, a man she knew as Lucius Malfoy.


	3. Watch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘I want to feel you touch my pain. I want to drown in your misery.’ ‘Pure’ by Gary Numan.

There were secret passages in the Manor, and it was through those Hermione moved from time to time.  The need to keep herself hidden was a point that was impressed upon her.  The elves did not use the passages, and Hermione wondered that if at one time the Manor employed human servants.

 

The passage from the study to the kitchens was one she used often, only second to the passage from the library down to the basement dungeons.  Hermione spent a great deal of daylight time in the library, though she could not touch the books.  She contented herself with reading the titles on the spines and remembering the contents of some of the book she had read in another lifetime.

 

It was as she was mentally reading a book on ‘Shaman of the Siberian Steppes’ that a noise came from one of the rooms adjoining the library.  Hermione had kept out of the room, after Aniel warned her it was the Master’s private parlour, and the place where he often entertained friends at times.  Glancing to the large windows on the western wall, she figured the time to be about eight in the evening. 

 

For two weeks, Hermione had yet to catch sight of anyone other than the elves.  The Manor was empty of any other human life.  However, as she moved to the door to the parlour, she found it slightly ajar.  The parlour was lit with candles, a dark paneled room with a central table, like a dining table, made of dark ebony, but the surface scarred with scratches and stained with something that was slightly viscous.

 

The far doors, leading to the foyer burst open, and five black-cloaked figures entered, carrying a struggling figure that was bound and gagged for silence.  Hermione itched to escape to the passage away, but as the five figures laid the struggling person on the table, she caught sight of a familiar face.

 

The bound figure stopped struggling, as if Stunned as it lay upon the table.  Wide blue eyes roamed the room, and swept past where Hermione hid behind the door.  A filthy gag was flecked with bloody spittle, and bonds cut into thick wrists.  Shaggy, unkempt red hair spilled over the ebony table like blood, and the clothing the figure wore was ragged and tattered.

 

The five figures in black stood around the table, but Hermione could see perfectly from her vantage point.  Cowls were pulled back, and Hermione shivered at the sight of five men she knew well enough to fear.  The Lestrange brothers, Dolohov, Crabbe Sr., and Goyle Sr.…

 

Motion caught her attention as a sixth figure entered the parlour, closing the door behind it.  A cowl and a mask were pulled away, and Hermione, for the first time in many years, laid eyes on Lucius Malfoy.

 

He was still as pale and patrician in nature as she remembered.  However, there were differences that made her wonder at her new Master.  His silver eyes were dulled, his lips colourless.  He seemed thinner, tired.  He was still alluring, like a silver idol of fey manufacture, but she knew all to well of his cruelty.

 

“And which Weasley is this?” he asked.

 

His voice was different from what she remembered, no trademark drawl, only disinterest.

 

“The youngest son, Potter’s mate,” Crabbe growled.

 

Hermione’s eyes moved back to her friend who kept very still as he studied the faces above him.

 

“And Potter?”

 

“Escaped again.  I was about to Stun him…” one of the Lestrange brothers said angrily.

 

Lucius Malfoy sighed, and doffed his cloak and threw it over the back of one of the couches in the room.  He wore Death Eater dragon hide armour, his long, pale, sinew-bound arms bare.

 

“No matter,” Lucius sighed, falling into an armchair near the fire, almost out of Hermione’s line of sight.  “Do what you wish with the brat, but keep in mind that the Dark Lord wants his head to show to Potter later.”

 

Hermione shifted, moving to angle her eye to Lucius whose face was lit by the fire.  She tried to ignore the sounds of Ron’s clothing being ripped away, and the muffled screams.  She could only watch Lucius’ face.  His eyes were distant as he sat back heavily into his chair. 

 

When the gag was ripped away, Ron screamed a terrible sound that had Hermione’s lips quivering.  She could not watch, though she knew that the five men were taking turns hexing her friend, at first.  The scent of blood made Hermione gag and she pressed her fist against her mouth. 

 

Lucius flinched at a wet strangled sound, and rubbed his eyes, leaving his hand poised upon his brow.  It was clear that her Master had no taste for torturing and raping other men—Pureblooded men.  Her Master was trying to block out the piggish squeal Crabbe Sr. made as he impaled himself inside his victim.  A finger moved to his lips and he bit down in disgust as the screams stopped and the sound of slick blood and sinew moving over greedy hands to greedier mouths filled the room.

 

Hermione had to back away from the door as out of the corner of her eye she saw Dolohov cast a Slicing Curse upon the neck and a red haired head fell to the rug, coming to rest near the door where Hermione hid.  Wide blue, dead eyes peered at her, accusatory…

 

She ran, her slippers making no noise over the tiled floor of the library, but a whimper passed her lips, echoing through the darkened space. 

 

And her Master heard, lifting his eyes to the ajar library door.


	4. Conspiracy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Hey bitch, this is what you are—purified, sanctified, sacrificed.’ ‘Pure’ by Gary Numan.

Hermione knew the world had gone insane around her, but it did not touch her in her cell under the Ministry. 

 

Two days after the Master had returned Hermione had yet to see him again.  She did, however, return to the library, and peeked through the door to the parlour.  The only evidence she found of the rape, mutilation, and murder of her best friend was a lock of red hair, cut away at the moment of decapitation.  She found it stuck in the crack of the jamb, perhaps having fluttered there when the murderers had retreated.

 

Lifting the lock of hair to her nose, she could smell a fragrance she had once associated with Ronald Weasley—and she quickly tucked it into the pocket of her plain grey dress.

 

The idle hours and weeks had given her time to ponder why she was in the Manor, but she still had no answers.

 

It was not until the third day that Master was in the Manor that she was summoned specifically.  Hermione had been sleeping, the hour well past midnight.  Aniel roused her from a dreamless sleep and waited with a candle while she dressed.  She had placed the lock of hair under the mattress, safe from the elves, safe from discovery.

 

Hermione was shown to a room on the first floor, an area she was not allowed to explore.  Standing at the foot of a large bed, Aniel cast a pitying glance at Hermione before moving to the candlelit lavatory off the bedroom.  Hermione supposed it was the master bedroom for it was nearly as large as the library downstairs, but warmer, more personal.  The bed was four to five times the size Hermione slept in, a massive architectural fixture in the centre of the room with spiral ash and walnut posts that reached to the ceiling.  The bedding was a dark blue mixture of velvet, silk and linen.  Decadent—it was the only word she could attribute to such a bed.

 

“Aniel tells me that you have been more like a ghost in the Manor…”

 

At the sound of his voice, her body seemed to melt, and she knelt on a bearskin rug, eyes fixed on the wood flooring.  She knew she was conditioned to kneel, and as much as it galled her to do so, Hermione knew that if she wanted to live to see another day, she would kneel.

 

In her peripheral vision, she could just see her Master, barefoot, in a pair of dark trousers and shirtsleeves, wiping his hands on a towel, his long platinum hair braided and snaking over one wide shoulder as far down as his waist.  She could not see his face clearly.

 

When his pale feet stopped short of the rug where she knelt, she tried not to stiffen as his thumb grasped her chin and pulled her face up to his.  Dropping the towel carelessly, Aniel scurried to pick it up, disappearing into the lavatory.

 

“They have not marked your face…”

 

Hermione was not sure if it was a statement or a question, either way, she did not answer.  Instead, she looked in his face, taking in his pale features.  Considering he was old enough to be her father, Lucius Malfoy appeared unchanged from what she remembered the first time she had seen him just before her Second Year.  She did remember how haggard he looked after his stay in Azkaban, but there was no sign of wear on his face at that moment.

 

“From now on, you will be allowed proper rooms, but at night, you will sleep here, in this room with me.”

 

Hermione blinked slowly, and her Master released her chin gently.  He moved to one side of the bed and sat down, blowing out one of the lamps and sitting back into the headboard with its massive pillows.

 

“Come…”

 

She moved, and sat on the opposite side of the bed, waiting for further instruction.  When she mimicked his posture, but left the lamp lit on her side of the bed, he turned to her.

 

“Speak your mind.”

 

Hermione cocked her head, she had not spoken her mind in years, and to start doing so, so suddenly, might warrant a set of boxed ears or worse.  His eyes were not so dull as she noticed several nights before, in fact, as he looked at her face, he seemed to be a different man all together.  Questions flooded her mind, but only one came out as spoken words.

 

“Why me?”

 

He sat up, and twisted slightly to sit with his legs folded next to her.  There was still a physical distance between them, and that gave Hermione a bit of courage.

 

“I chose you, as a reward after a successful battle.”

 

His voice was flat and even, emotionless.  Then, his lips curled at the ends upward, and Hermione insides squirmed unpleasantly.

 

“You might think I chose you because of what you are—Potter’s Mudblood brain, Potter’s Mudblood princess…but that is not it at all.”

 

There was an audible sneer in his voice, but Hermione was not sure how to interpret it.

 

He leaned closer, and Hermione kept very still.  His hand grasped the side of her face, fingers burying in her hair, and pulled in her close so that she knelt on the bed before him, he pressed his lips to her right temple.

 

“I chose you to help me destroy the Dark Lord…” he whispered.


	5. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘I want to tear your dreams away, and show your hopes last sanctuary.’ ‘Pure’ by Gary Numan.

 

There was no way out except through her Master.  Hermione realized this soon after he had whispered the traitorous words into her ear.  There was no guarantee that it was a trap, and there was no surety to be able to trust his words.  Lucius Malfoy had lied his way out of much in his life—imprisonment being at the top of the list.

 

He did not touch her that night, and let her sleep in her dress.  The bed was large enough for her to imagine that she was sleeping alone.  He did not snore and did not move much while asleep.

 

When morning came, she was alone.

 

Aniel met her on the servant’s staircase to the kitchen and led her back up to the first floor, showing her several rooms that were suddenly hers.

 

“You have put on some more weight, and you might fit into the Mistress’ clothes…”

 

Armoires of clothing, all belonging to a dead woman, were shown to her, and Hermione could only stare passively as Aniel laid out a fine dress for her to wear that day.  The elf spoke instructions, new instructions, as Hermione dressed mechanically in a bustled gown of deep blue.  It was a plain dress compared to the others she had seen, and it clung to her body like a second skin of taffeta, warm in the cool atmosphere of the Manor.

 

“You will always join the Master when he has guests.  You will sit at his feet, as fitting to your station.  You will always join the Master for dinner, sitting at his left hand.  You will not speak to guests.  You will not leave the Master’s side for any reason unless escorted by Aniel when guests are present.  You will not speak unless spoken to, you will not look guests in the face, you will not…will not…”

 

Hermione felt as if her head were on a hinge attached to her neck for all the nodding she did.

 

Once Aniel had finished with the ‘new rules,’ the elf tutted at Hermione as she stood before a dressing mirror in the bedroom she assumed had once been Narcissa Malfoy’s.

 

“Your hair needs fixing; sit on the bed, Aniel will do it…”

 

The elf, whose sex Hermione could not determine, grumbled to itself about a witch not having a wand…then remembered Hermione was not considered a witch in the eyes of the Dark Lord.

 

While the elf Charmed Hermione’s hair up into pins, weaving the long chestnut curls into intricate weaves, Hermione regarded her new rooms.  They were smaller than her Master’s was, brighter, decorated in creams and pale blues.  It was tasteful, feminine, but still cold.

 

There was a type of artificial quality about the first floor rooms, one that Hermione disliked.  The simplicity of her basement room had suited her.  The light that came in through the windows still made her eyes hurt after four years of darkness.

 

“Master is waiting with a guest in the parlour, you are overdue,” Aniel informed Hermione; a sudden dread filled her corseted chest.

 

She did not want to go into the parlour. 

 

Escape was impossible.  If she were to try, she knew she would not get far.  There was no one she could ask for help if she managed to leave the Manor.  Harry had stopped looking for her, Ron was murdered before her eyes, and Hermione did not know what other of her friends and allies were still alive.

 

Then her Master’s words came back to her.

 

She would have to trust in them for now.

 

Descending in clothing that made her feel far more elegant that she would ever know, Hermione knocked on the parlour door and entered.  As Aniel had told her, she sat at Lucius’ feet like an obedient hound, her hands folded atop his boot, his fingers brushing the side of her neck, as a man would stroke a beloved pet.

 

Tea was served, but none was offered to Hermione.  The scent of orange peel and spice made the lingering smell of death in the parlour disappear.  Hermione eyed the walnut table with repressed anger.

 

“It is good to know that we understand each other,” Lucius said, and Hermione was quickly paying attention.

 

Her eyes moved to the guest sitting on the adjacent couch, cup, and saucer balanced on a wide knee.  She had paid little mind to the conversation, still burning at the thought that Ron was gone…

 

Chancing a look at the guest, whose eyes were burning into her, Hermione shuddered and her Master’s fingers pulled roughly on a loose curl to keep her face from crumbling in humiliation.

 

The guest was Viktor Krum.


	6. Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Sometimes it almost breaks my heart. Sometimes I swear I hear it laugh at me. Sometimes it feels like I could die, and then it leaves my dreams again.’ ‘Deadliner’ by Gary Numan

His rough hands hurt her, and Hermione was more afraid of what would happen to her once her Master found out.

 

“Remember!” he ground out between barred teeth, pinning her to the corridor wall next to a sleeping portrait.  “Fight him!”

 

His breath was hot on her face, and she could smell the dinner wine.  He was not drunk, but he was angry.

 

“This is not vhere you are supposed to be!” he hissed.

 

She had lost count of how many years it had been since she had last seen Viktor Krum.  Part of her, beyond the pain of his crushing hands on her shoulders, rejoiced that he was not like the others—the Dark Lord’s lap dog.

 

Hermione kept her face turned away, staring poignantly at the rug. 

 

“Did they brainvash you as vell?”

 

She said nothing.

 

“Malfoy vill kill you, Her-my-nee.  It is vell known vot he does to vomen!”

 

His hands pulled away, but she did not move.  Even as he caressed her cheek and pressed his lips into the side of her neck, she did not move.

 

“Ve thought you vere dead years ago…” he whispered.

 

Hermione hid her relief.  ‘We,’ he had said.

 

“Remember, Her-my-nee, ve are still fighting.”

 

The sound of clearing throat forced Hermione to slam her eyes shut and propelled Viktor away from her as if stung by her body. 

 

“It is quite late, Mr. Krum.  Aniel is waiting to attend you in your rooms.”

 

His voice was as smooth as silk, unperturbed, but Hermione would chance to see his face.

 

“I bid you a good night,” she heard Viktor say, and then listened to his footfalls fade in the distance.

 

When she opened her eyes, it was to find her Master towering over her, his eyes hard.  She automatically sank down to her knees, the blue taffeta whispering as she moved.

 

“Enough,” he whispered.

 

His hand grasped her arm and wrenched her to her feet.  As if pulling along a petulant child, her Master dragged her to the first floor and into the master bedroom, throwing her inside.  Hermione tripped over her skirts and tumbled gracelessly to the floor at the foot of the bed.  When she stopped rolling, she went to her knees again, head bowed.

 

Her Master, however, was using his wand to cast privacy Charms about the room, on the door and windows.  His wand slashed angrily through the air and she waited for it to turn upon her.  It never did.

 

“I knew I would ascertain Krum’s true allegiances by revealing you to him.  I did not think he would be so stupid as to corner you!” he growled, stalking past her to the lavatory.

 

She could see his reflection in the vanity mirror, removing his dinner robes, his boots, and shirtsleeves. 

 

“You did well, girl.  I presented you with a temptation to escape me, and you did and said nothing…” he said, catching her eyes in the mirror.  Hermione swiveled her eyes to the rug under her wrinkled skirts.  “If Krum knew what I had planned, he might be a great ally.  Then again, he hates me; he might turn me over to the Dark Lord himself if he knew what I wanted to do…”

 

Hermione wanted to grin, but knew better.

 

There was more movement through the open door of the lavatory, but Hermione kept her place.

 

“Get out of that ridiculous dress, girl, it does not suit you.”

 

He had left the lavatory in a pair of black silk bottoms, his chest bare.  Hermione stood slowly, and began fidgeting with the ties on the back of her bodice.  However, cool fingers brushed hers away, and Hermione stiffened as she felt the heat of his body against her back.

 

“My wife’s old clothes are not suiting to you.  It is obvious that you are not used to much more than a basic shift,” he murmured as he began pulling the ties loose and the taffeta skirt fell about her ankles.  “Aniel might be too tight to buy new dresses, but Aniel will, if I tell her to…”

 

Female elf, then, Hermione thought idly as strong fingers jerked at the binding of her corset to loosen it.

 

“Remember that as long as Krum is my guest; do not to give him the chance to corner you.”

 

Hermione licked her lips as her bodice fell to the floor.

 

“If I play my cards right, we might all live through this…” he grunted as he jerked at a stubborn knot and her corset slipped down her body, leaving her nude before him.

 

Hermione did not move her arms to cover herself, and her Master stepped away to go to his side of the bed.  Hermione did the same, pulling the pins from her hair to let it fall over her breasts and scarred back.

 

As far as she was concerned, Lucius Malfoy could do all he wanted to bring down the Dark Lord.  However, she would be damned if he was going to eke by somehow to live to see a new dawn.

 

She would not forget what her ‘Master’ had allowed to happen to Ron.


	7. Wait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘I know I'm asleep, but I know this is real, and no one can help me here.’ ‘Deadliner’ by Gary Numan.

Hermione kept Ron’s lock of hair wrapped in a handkerchief and she carried it with her during the days that followed Viktor Krum’s visit.  She waited to hear news of movement, more of her Master’s plan, but she heard nothing.

 

Two days after Viktor’s visit, her Master was gone.  Hermione waited to hear of his arrival again, or the arrival of guests, none came.  With her extended liberties, she was allowed to read from the small library that had once belonged to Narcissa Malfoy.  It was a library contained in a small closet like room off the bedroom, and most of the books were fiction.  Besides tawdry romance novels, there were adventure novels.  Hermione immersed herself in reading a book about a woman who used her low status as a king’s consort to rise in the court.  Sex as a weapon.

 

In the years she spent in the dark, Hermione thought little about sex, at least, not in a positive light.  Torture of the female captured often consisted of rape and molestation, but Hermione had been spared that brand of torture.  She felt too dirty, literally, to ever indulge in anything remotely sexual.  However, after so many weeks of living in the Manor and access to basic creature comforts, she had touched herself once.  It was more an experiment to see if she could arouse herself.  Hermione thought about Harry when she touched herself.  She could not bear to think about Ron who had been her first.  Harry had been her second, and it had been tender, not as awkward as with Ron.

 

To add to her arousal was her knowledge that Harry was still alive, or he was the night Ron was murdered.

 

It had been a night while her Master was gone that she brought herself to a silent climax with her own fingers.

 

Hermione wondered if her Master would touch her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A week of being alone was brought to an end in the middle of the night while Hermione slept in his bed.  His string of curses woke her as he stalked like a shadow in black cloak and mask to the lavatory.  The door was slammed shut and the sound of running water drowned out his voice.

 

The lamps lit as Hermione sat up and Aniel appeared at the foot of the bed, seemingly agitated.

 

“Keep very quiet, do not ask questions,” the elf whispered urgently, Charming the bed down for the Master, and Vanishing the trail of blood on the wood floor—bloody footprints.  “Master is angry, and he will try for you to ease his ire.”

 

Hermione blinked as Aniel quickly cast Freshening Charms, stoked the fire in the fireplace on the wall opposite the lavatory.  Then the elf hopped onto the bed, moving its gnarled fingers over Hermione.  Magic tickled her skin under the night shift she wore, and then the shift was gone. 

 

More magic trickled over her bare skin, into her body, and Hermione shuddered at the sensation.

 

“No children,” the elf muttered brusquely.  “Not until the Master decides what more to do with you!”

 

Hermione stared pointedly at the elf, and the elf stared back.  There was something in the elf’s eyes that Hermione was beginning to understand…

 

The door banged open, and Hermione gasped, not realizing how many minutes had passed and that Aniel was gone. 

 

Her Master was nude, erect, and dripping water onto the floor.  His face was a mask of anger that made Hermione clutch her blankets to pull them higher over her body.

 

“You will prove your worth now, girl,” he growled.

 

She had been waiting for this…

 

He tried for her, and took her, and Hermione swallowed his anger for him.


	8. Web

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Cry for someone, something, I'll laugh at you.’ ‘Slave’ by Gary Numan.

Like a fly caught in an inescapable web, Hermione was trapped.

 

Her Master was not gentle the first time, and Hermione hid the bruises under new gowns of black taffeta that covered her body from neck to ankle.  The dresses hid all the unattractive scars as well; testament to what her body had been through in the last four years.  Her Master found the marks distasteful.

 

However, after the first time, Hermione was allowed to call him Lucius.

 

“Potter is amassing a force in Ireland, one that could easily take over the Dark Lord’s Guards and army.  It is only a matter of time until it happens, and you will be sure that I will be on the ‘right’ side this time,” he had whispered to her as he left their bed, the bedding damp with sweat and come.  Hermione barely listened, her body aching from bone to sinew.

 

She had watched him go into the lavatory and disappear to wash himself of her, emerging in fine regalia, with his hair combed of tangles down the length of his back.  He did not spare a glance at her as he left the room in the dim hours of the morning.  Hermione would not see him again for two weeks.

 

In that time, Hermione began planning of her own.  Surely, Viktor would have informed Harry that she was alive in Malfoy Manor. 

 

What of Lucius?  Was he in contact with Harry?  Was Lucius working sub rosa all this time?

 

A web of lies surrounded her.

 

Sitting in a window seat in one of the disused parlours on the first floor, Aniel found her reading in the wintry sunlight, at late day.

 

“The Master requests your presence, we have guests.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lucius’ parlour played host to the same five men that had murdered the man’s whose lock of hair she touched in her pocket as she entered the room.  This time, however, there was no bound captive, but the five were sitting around the bloodstained table, eating their fill of meat from a central platter.  Lucius stood at the head, behind an empty chair.

 

At her entrance, all eyes were upon her, but she immediately took her place, kneeling at Lucius’ left leg.

 

“So you see, gentleman, Miss Granger is alive and well…trained and obedient,” Lucius drawled.  His fingers fell to her hair, which he pet lovingly.  “And Potter knows she is here as my possession.”

 

Dolohov, whose face Hermione would never forget, leered at her.  He was the closest to her and reached out to touch her face with greasy fingers.

 

“No touching, Anton, this witch is _mine_.”

 

The ice in Lucius’ voice chilled the room, and Hermione let her fingers grasp the back of his trouser leg, unseen to the other guests.  She feared the five men.  Their lecherous eyes kept her pinned.

 

“How does she taste?” one of the Lestrange brothers asked with a hiss, licking his lips with an unusually long tongue.

 

“Dirty, as one might expect for such a low born creature,” Lucius answered.

 

“And you will keep her alive?” the other brother asked, Rodolphus, she remembered.

 

“Naturally.  Despite what you might think, I will breed her.”

 

A sound of disgust found her ears.  Lucius chuckled. 

 

“Have any of your wives given you an heir fitting to serve the Dark Lord?” he asked rhetorically.

 

Hermione knew that Crabbe and Goyle Jr. had died early in the War.  Lucius had an heir, but Hermione had heard nothing of Draco since before she was captured.

 

“Breed heirs for the Cause, that was one of our Lord’s commandments…” Lucius seemed to sing triumphantly.  “This witch will bear many loyal servants.”

 

Hermione’s fingers gripped Lucius’ trouser leg tighter, but he paid no mind of touch.

 

He sat down at the table and Hermione was pulled along.  As an act of possession, he pressed her head to his thigh as all eyes watched.

 

“She’s prettier than the last…is that why you haven’t killed her?” either Crabbe or Goyle asked, Hermione could not tell the difference between the two.

 

Lucius smirked.  “If you remember, correctly, old friend, it was you and Anton who killed the last ‘reward.’  Poor Miss Brown, she was a bit gamy for your refined tastes…”

 

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, letting her anger wash through her and disappear.

 

“Ah, but your Miss Patil was quite good,” one of the Lestranges said with a smack of the lips.

 

“I will have to take your word for it Rabastan, I doubt I will ever acquire the taste.”

 

She felt ill, and no amount of holding to the chair leg would keep her head for spinning.  Slowly, she raised a hand to her mouth and vomited into her mouth.  Swallowing quickly, she let her hand fall to her tightly corseted waist, hoping none of the guests noticed.

 

She was caught in a web of murder and perversity.  The man whose left hand curled a lock of her hair about his forefinger had declared his intentions, and Hermione knew all she could do was try to survive.  Soon, the elastic strands of the web would snap, and she would have a justice and satisfaction of her own.

 

Hermione vowed to kill every man in the room.


	9. Holy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Sometimes I call out for you, and sometimes I'm afraid. So I beg God for salvation, for an angel every night.’ ‘In a Dark Place’ by Gary Numan.

Hermione found it unfair that he was beautiful.  Like a silver god or angel, he hovered over her body, his hands sliding from her thick hair to grasp her breasts.  He smirked as her nipples peeked from between his long fingers, pebbled hard. 

 

He knelt between her thighs, the head of his weeping cock brushing against her body, smearing her juices over her labia and along her belly.  He was gentle this time, but still domineering.

 

“I did not lie when I said I would have you bear me an heir.”

 

Aniel had not cast the strange contraceptive magic as she prepared Hermione for their Master.  Cleansing Charms trickled over her skin, and inside her bowels, but no more.

 

He did not kiss her, and Hermione supposed Lucius found it too personal, too degrading to him.

 

She bit back a cry as he penetrated her with a swift jerking of his hips, and as his hands moved to gasp her hips to force her legs about his slim waist, he snarled at her.

 

“You will not hold back!”

 

After so long without sex, Lucius felt overlarge inside her.  Hermione could not accurately say whether his cock was above average in size.  Her previous encounters had been years past, and in those times, she had not seen the organ that would slide into her body for blankets or darkness.  Lucius’ cock was thick, but not incredibly long.  She had seen her Master naked on several occasions, and considering the size and shape of his body, his penis was slightly out of proportion, larger when erect.  However, as he gathered her into his arms, pressing her to his chest, his thrusts drove her analysis from her thoughts.

 

Hermione could not deny that he made her feel incredibly aroused.  He had brought her to climax many times during their first coupling, but he had also been rough, pulling her hair, forcing her body into strange contortions, penetrating places that were not meant for such things. 

 

She moaned in his ear, and his thrusts became more powerful.

 

He was quite vocal during the act the first time, denigrating her by using mocking names, or whispering praises to her like songs.  Hermione felt like a holy harlot.

 

Rolling, Hermione found herself, for the first time, in a position of power, straddling his hips.  His silver eyes were hooded as he gazed up at her.  His hands skimmed her hips, over the scars, up to her breasts again.  Bucking, Hermione twisted her hips, her palms pressed into his chest, the pale, and course line of hair on his chest sweaty and tickling her hands.

 

“Goddess…sweet, sweet goddess,” he whispered.

 

The blond thatch of hair surrounding his cock brushed against her clit, and after several twists of her hips, Hermione threw her head back and sighed loudly.  She rode him with abandon, closing her eyes as her hands gravitated to her breasts to pinch at her nipples.

 

Hermione could lose herself in such a moment and sensation—a holy ecstasy that took her far away from the reality she had found herself in four years before.

 

She was nothing more than a slave.

 

Lucius gasped as Hermione wailed, her body clutching his cock, and soon Hermione was on her hands and knees.  His long, loose hair trailed along her scarred back, followed by lips and fingers.

 

“Remember this…” he whispered as he slipped into her body again, leaning over her back to speak in her ear.  “Remember how this feels, remember that I protected you, kept you from those monsters, Hermione…”

 

Grasping her hips, he thrust, causing her back to bow and a moan to pass her lips.

 

He had called her by name, and from his mouth, her name sounded like a prayer.

 

Hermione cried as he filled her over and over again, fingers finding her clit, and eliciting the deepest sounds of longing from her body—something the torturers could never summon from her in the years they abused her.

 

Lucius whimpered in her ear and the sound filled her head, and soon she was gone, falling to the bed in a silent scream.  His voice filled the void of her scream.

 

“Remember who saved you…”

 

He tortured her with his touch, wringing her frustrations out of her body every time she was lost in the peaceful oblivion of climax.  Hermione was not sure whether he touched her out of hate or love.  He took everything from her, and gave her something more.

 

Lucius Malfoy was like the god she had come to hate, who gave her no logical reason why she should have suffer so much because of her birth and heritage.

 

When he slept, with his arms holding her impossibly close, she wondered if in the end, she would allow him to be saved.

 

Her eyes found the folded handkerchief on the bedside table beneath the extinguished lamp.  In the moonlight, she could see the tips of a lock of red hair, and she worried her lip.

 

More than likely, his promise to fill her belly with a child would come to pass before she could exact her revenge on the world that had condemned her to be a slave.  If that were the case, Hermione knew she could use a child as the ultimate weapon to bring about the worst type of revenge.

 

The power of her wrath would be like that of the god she hated, holy, and total.


	10. Vengeance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Feels like I'm fighting the possession of my soul. I'm told that this is called the sickness of need.’ ‘Deadliner’ by Gary Numan.

“Read the sentence.”

Hermione felt safe in the throng of witnesses, anonymous, but still his eyes bored into her face, making her feel quite alone.

“This court has ruled Lucius Abraxas Malfoy guilty of multiple counts of treason, murder, subversion, genocide, slavery of other human life, rape, torture, and cannibalism. While Mr. Malfoy was integral in the destruction of Voldemort’s rule and the dissolution of the High Guard, Mr. Malfoy had been ruled to hang by the neck until death for the totality of his crimes. This punitive act is the state’s last act of mercy…” a voice announced from a box over looking the yard where the gallows rose up like a three legged gray beast.

He stood on a wheeled platform attached to a horse, his hands bound behind his back, the noose about his neck. The jeers and screams from the crowd did not seem to rankle him, nor did the rubbish thrown at him. Of all of the convicted, Lucius Malfoy was only one of three that were to be hanged.

The Lestranges, Dolohov, Crabbe and Goyle had met their end the day that Harry Potter and his army swarmed England. Hermione had killed Dolohov and Crabbe herself with a penknife she had found in Lucius’ study. She could still feel their hot blood on her hands after slitting their throats while they dozed, drunk and full bellied in the study where they raped, murdered, and ate.

“Lucius Malfoy, do you have any last words to say to the courts and the families of your victims?”

It was Harry’s voice, Hermione realized, drifting down from the box overhead.

Lucius’ eyes moved from her face, up to the box overhead. “Anything I say will not stop the inevitable, Potter. I have played my part, and I will face my ultimate judgment.”

Hermione shuddered even as a strong arm gathered her into a warm chest. Her swollen belly rubbed against the man who had saved her from the horror of her enslavement, an unlikely saviour.

“May God have mercy your soul, Lucius Malfoy.”

The creaking of wheels filled the yard, and then as Hermione watched from over the lapel of the man’s coat, Lucius Malfoy’s body was jerked into the air. The noose tightened, boots kicked, searching for ground six feet below his soles. A cheer rose from the crowd, drowning out the sound of snapping neck and gagging.

Hermione wondered exactly how long it would take her husband to die, how long it would be that she would become a widow.

Tongue lolled, eyes bulged and blood, ejaculate, and excrement permeated the smell of unwashed bodies in the yard, and Hermione buried her face into the man’s chest, hiding her eyes. She did not want to see him so…

Her knees gave way, and she crumpled, hands grasping her and holding her fast to keep from falling to the muddy ground. The child in her womb felt her distress and kicked hard into her diaphragm.

“Hermione…let me take you back…”

His fingers brushed at her hair and lifted her face to his. She found it strange that he did not look so much like his father. His eyes were blue, not silver. His hair was cropped short, and not long. She nodded, swallowing thickly, and with a lift, she was in Draco Malfoy’s arms.

The enchanted wedding band that had been slipped onto her finger weeks before fell off her hand and was trampled in the mud. Hermione did not notice it was gone until much later.

 

 

Draco Malfoy had been the one to save her in the Manor the night Harry and his army attacked. Draco had been at Harry’s side since the defeat at the Battle of Hogwarts, choosing his side well, despite the reservations of Harry’s allies. Hermione had not known, she had been taken immediately after the battle and kept separate from the rest of the captured.

Draco took her back to the Manor, as he was the rightful Lord, and there, he and Aniel took care of her while Harry and the others came and went. 

The marriage to her Master had been hasty, a last ditch effort to insure Lucius’ safety and his intention that he would not face the gallows. Lucius had been supplying information by way of his son to Harry, and Lucius had thought that he would be spared when Damocles’ Sword fell. 

With the life in her womb growing, Hermione snipped the horsehair, and the sword fell on the day when Draco and Harry came to collect her.

“I had a dream…” she had said from her chaise lounge before a western window, her black taffeta dress stretched over her belly. “I hid behind a door, peering into a room where the villains brought my friend and violated and ate him…”

Lucius stood aghast behind her chair, his hand gripping the arm.

“It was only a dream, my dear, only a dream…”

Hermione slipped the handkerchief from her pocket and passed it to Harry, whose emerald eyes burned as his fingers caressed the lock of red hair.

Draco pulled her away as Lucius lunged for her neck, betrayal in his silver eyes.

 

 

“We can leave this house.”

Hermione rubbed circles into her belly as Draco poured tea in a parlour that was far removed from the bed she had shared with Lucius, far removed from the parlour where Ron was murdered.

“My mother has a house in Ireland, a safe place that my father never knew about. It is a pure place…”

Hermione looked to the window and the setting sun.

“This is my home now,” she whispered.

A murderer’s den would be the birthplace of her child. It was unfair, she knew, the child was innocent, but she…Hermione was not.

 

 

“Daddy…”

Hermione paid no mind to her son babbling on Draco’s lap. Internally, she winced.

Brothers…

She walked the Manor like a ghost in black taffeta, and though the world had changed outside again and again, Hermione was still hiding behind the library door. She was not satisfied with her vengeance.


End file.
